The Last Chapter

She created a legend — but life had its own ending to write.

         One last job, he thinks, as the hiss of a flame licks the tip of his cigarette.

         He inhales deeply and soaks up the ambience of New York – the city that never sleeps those media hounds proclaim –

         Ain’t that the truth?

         Fifteen years he’s spent prowling the stink that made up this city; a far cry from the slums of Chicago, he can tell you that. No more chasing after the likes of Capone wannabes or two-bit slackers who couldn’t hack a good ol’ mugging on a rough night. Nah, New York was where the action was. Once here, he would clean up the stench of crime and carve out a name.

         Fifteen years later –

         He hacks out a cough, tosses the stub away, and crushes it under a scuffed heel as he locks in on his target with a bitter smile.

         The camera feels like an impotent weapon in hands that tremble slightly as he lifts it to his face.

         Dame dazzling in mink. Click. Probably smells like orchid and lies. Click. Blood red lipstick smirking with pleasure as she plants a damning kiss on the cheek of Mr. Senator. Click. Muted laughter of sinful memories shared. Click. One last look of longing. Click. It’s enough to have his client racing to the judges when these babies are printed.

         This is what it’s come to, he muses with a crooked smile. Fifteen years and what I gotta show for it? Chasing cheap broads and breaking up happy homes –

__



         The tapping of fingers on the keyboard stops as the shrill cry from the telephone pulls her attention away from the blurring words on the screen.

         “Hello?”

         “Hey, sweetheart. Lemme guess, still churning out the next bestseller, eh?”

         She blushes and blinks away the moisture gathering in her eyes. She might be needing a new prescription for these glasses soon.

         “Don’t be silly, Adam. You know this is going to be the last hurrah.”

         “Uh huh. Remind me of who said that two books ago, hmm?”

         Her blush deepens, her gaze drifting to the shelf where the never-ending adventures of Detective Allen Cromwell stare back in resolute determination.

         She had sworn it would only be a trilogy.

         However, six New York Times Bestseller lists and six-figure pay checks with a T.V. series in the works later (the movie plan had fallen through as the execs at the streaming platform service convinced her that it would be best to give the fans the full extent of Cromwell’s story. A two-plus hour movie simply wouldn’t cut it), Christina Cassock finds herself staring at a computer screen with her stubborn protagonist refusing to let go.

         Book Seven will be the absolute last, she told her fans at a convention where their collective groans and wails of dismay would have been an ego boost, if she didn’t allow a sense of resentment to creep in.

         What more did they want from her? Or from him?

         “…back late again.”

         “Hmm?” she forces herself back to the conversation.

         “I said I’m gonna be late again, Chrissy. Think we got a lead on the case, so Bret and I are heading over to Winden to check it out.”

         She eyed the clock. Almost 10:16.

         “Isn’t it kinda late, honey?”

         His chuckle is soft and familiar, given that they both know just how ridiculous her question is. Many a night was spent lying in bed or slumped out on the sofa wondering if she would finally get the call that a bullet had found its way into him from some psycho on the loose.

         Her relief every time he came home, in one piece, was now a running joke between them, so much so, he had planted the seeds all those years ago –

         “You could write about it,” he whispered as they willed their thudding hearts to settle into normalcy and the sweat to cool off their heated flesh. “Didn’t you once say I was like Sherlock Holmes or something?”

         She laughed and smacked him playfully. “Not Sherlock, doofus, but you do have a great track record of solving many cases, so…. hmm…”

         “What?” He raised a brow as she swiftly sat up to observe him

         Her piercing hazel eyes bored into his grey ones for a heartbeat and then to the top of his ruffled curly dark hair she loved so much. She brushed away the loose tendrils from his forehead, absently caressing an old scar at his left temple from an encounter with some goons back in his teens. His nose was a bit on the crooked side; one too many fights in his youth. His features were lean, his lips just full enough to make them kissable when they weren’t taut with frustrated thoughts or repressed anger.

         Her fingers trailed across his broad shoulders and down to a chest dusted with tiny hairs that led to toned abs and a very generous –

         “Hey now,” he teased, with a smirk, as she touched him again. “Sure, you can go another round? And don’t try to change the subject, sweetheart. You’ve been looking for something new to sink your teeth into…why not this one?”

         “Didn’t you say it would be a conflict of interest? If I kept bothering you about your cases?”

         “As long as you don’t use real names, I don’t see the problem. Besides, maybe your writing can even help me crack a few of them, hmm? Come on, what do you say?” He cajoled as he snaked an arm and a leg around hers to spin her onto her back. Her giggles were muffled in the thickness of his hair as he worried her neck.

         “All right, already,” she laughed and reached down to cup his cheeks. Her heart stirred at the warmth in his eyes, and for the umpteenth time, she marvelled at how lucky she was to have met this man on that cold night shopping for an emergency box of tampons.

         “I’ll do it,” she finally vowed with a tender kiss. “I’ll make you the hero of my next story.”

__


         Only Allen Cromwell was a far cry – description wise – from the man she got to see every day.

         Where Adam Cassock was tall and lean, Allen Cromwell favoured the portly side – especially in his later years. Adam spoke with the easy-going flair of the California breeds. Allen rolled off the Chicago twang with gusto. Adam did like his suits and coats; however, he was more comfortable in jeans and sneakers on any given day. Unfortunately, you wouldn’t catch Allen wearing anything but his trusty tan trench coat and fedora.

         They did share a few similarities; both growing up in difficult neighbourhoods and having to fight and survive streets that were not kind to them. Both lost their mothers at a young age, and had fathers who ruled with iron fists. When he was sixteen, Adam lost his father – a police officer – during a deadly shootout, while Allen lost his father at eighteen from the same causes.

         When she had presented Allen’s outline to Adam, he was wary about their shared history, but after convincing him that nothing more would be dredged up from his past, she got his blessing to continue with a character that would become a blessing, and curse, for the next ten years.

         It’s a beauty, James, her editor-slash-agent, had enthused with the first draft. This is so damn rich, Chrissy! Did Adam let you into the precinct’s secret files or something? I am already in love with Allen. What do you mean you only have this one book planned? Oh no, honey. We’re going all the way. I see a trilogy. Think Game of Thrones, but actually finishing the darn thing.

         She was proud at the compliments, yet conflicted at the pressure gradually building with the stratospheric rise of her fame and fortune. She wasn’t sure if to flee into obscurity or give in to writing fluff just to keep the publishers (and fans) happy.

         “Sometimes I think I hate him,” she confessed to Adam; her eyes trained on the ceiling as the last scene she had written of Allen sobbing over the corpse of his partner and best buddy, replayed over again in her head. “He’s suffocating me.”

         “Then kill him off, babe,” Adam mumbled, half-asleep beside her. He was already so used to her rants; it could get exhausting. “Let him die some heroic death saving the world or something.”

         Kill him off? She’d thought with panic; her widened eyes turning to look at him as if to make sure he was still in bed with her. That would be like…

         She dared not say the words.

__


         Book Four – Day of the Angels – was considered her weakest release. The reviews were harsh, including many who felt she had made Allen too 'emotionally stunted' with his romantic liaisons.

         Makes too many mistakes, the critics raged. Comes off as a cream puff instead of the hardnosed detective we all know and love.

         The fans had a field day on blogs and forums; many accusing her of becoming too lazy and not being ‘true’ to Cromwell.

         “Well God forbid a man falls in love, huh?” James had scoffed as if to appease her descent into melancholy. “Although…you might want to tighten up a few things in the next one, Chrissy. I mean have you considered a change of scene? Maybe have him go on vacation to some exotic island and solve a case there?”

         It would take her almost three years to finally whip out Book Five – Dance with the Devil – and it was all thanks to a difficult case Adam had been working on at the time. She studied her husband during those trying months, not wanting to interfere with the case, but still managing to milk information about the ghastly murders of three elderly women within a month.

         Her fingers had flown over the keyboard as she wove it into Cromwell’s life; tearing him away from the woman he loved and forcing him to face some hard truths about who he truly was. He was in his prime; back to sniffing out the leads and taking out the goons who would get in his way. At the end of the book, the reader would find him sunk to his knees with a gunshot wound to his shoulder; not knowing if he would survive this time around.

         Book Six demanded he did.

         But it’s time to let you go, she pleaded with his ghost as she stared at the blank screen in readiness for Book Seven. Once this is over, you will live on in television. They’ve got some famous actor for the role, so until then…I need to send you off in a blaze of glory…for the last time…

__


         The shrill ring of the phone has her jerking up with a cry of surprise.

         She peels away the paper stuck to her cheek and pushes up her glasses; her lower back screaming in agony at having dozed off in such an awkward position. The desk clock declares it’s now 7:30 in the morning.

         “Hello?” she croaks.

         “Chrissy? Hey, it’s Jackson…sorry to wake you, but…it’s Adam. He’s in the hospital-”

         She listens; surprised at how calm she is.

         In the manuscript, Cromwell is about to do the most amazing thing. He stands on the ledge of the building, arms wide open, daring the scorned dame to do what vengeance requires. He has given it his all. He has nothing left to prove.

         Eventually, she hangs up and takes a deep breath. Her gaze drifts to the window where a gentle breeze mingles with the peaceful song of a bluebird.

         How fitting, she muses, as a salty wetness soon kisses her lips in silent gratitude and unspoken sorrow.

         For both men will, indeed, get the heroic finales they so richly deserve.




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Word Count: 1976
Written For: "Journey Through Genres: Official Contest" 
Prompt: Write a short story that prominently features elements of the detective genre.